


Open Mic Rejects

by returntosaturn



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Boys In Love, Episode: s04e06 Open Mic, M/M, One Shot, soft, very very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Summary: His intent is only the mildest of embarrassment, not humiliation. Only enough irritation to ruffle David’s feathers, to hear the way his voice gets that breathless edge, to see that sparkle in his eyes, because every time it happens, it gets a little further under David’s walls. Plus he’s cute when he’s like that.// Patrick gets the idea for the open mic, tries to decide on a perfect song.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 16
Kudos: 106





	Open Mic Rejects

There’s a faint, tinny sort of noise coming from within the store as Patrick tries to shoulder the door open with his laptop bag dangling from one shoulder and a large paper sack from the cafe clutched in his hand. Melodic, rhythmic, not their usual soft and unobtrusive jazz. But as soon as he’s made it inside, it’s gone. 

It  _ is  _ their normal jazz pouring smooth from the speakers in the back, in their place on the little sideboard alongside the complimentary cucumber water, and it’s his  _ boyfriend _ —that’s new—scuttling from that little nook over to him with his hands fluttering.

“Hi, hi,” David breathes, reaching out for his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Mm. Lunch. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Let’s eat first and then can you help me bring in the new case of cleansers?”

“Ok,” David says, which isn’t yes or no, but an acknowledgment Patrick can at least finagle once David’s full and happy. He’s still a little harried as he takes the brown paper bag from him and hustles it over to the cash, tearing it open with pinchy fingers to unpack Patrick’s turkey club and his own Monte Cristo. 

Patrick flips the sign to closed before he steps over to meet him and sets down his laptop behind the register.

“Were you playing music?”

“Hmm?” David’s already got a mouthful, already got powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth.

Patrick grins, the invitation to tease at whatever it is that’s got David in an anxious mood mingling with the urge to kiss away that sweet splash of sugar.

“It sounded like you were playing music when I came in.”

“I was,” David says, takes another bite, gestures vaguely around the sales floor, indicating the quiet swoon of a saxophone currently setting a  _ tailored and tranquil  _ atmosphere for their customers. Wherever they are.

“Hm.” The corner of Patrick’s mouth quirks. “I could hear it outside. It sounded different.”

“Nope. You know how I feel about departing from the store’s curated playlist. Only after closing and never Neil Young.”

They finish their lunch and Patrick gets help with the cleansers, even lets David carry the smaller box since he came without protest. The afternoon passes slow and quiet, and he’s getting a bit worried about the lack of foot traffic, but it is nice to just be with David, in their space, while he straightens the candles in the hutch at the back wall and folds and refolds blankets and… hums.

He’s humming a repetitive sort of melody, probably subconsciously because Patrick’s sure he never would do such a thing were he not up in his head.

Which brings into question what he’s in his head about. Patrick’s flattered.

At close, David takes the broom with minimal eye rolling.

“I don’t know why you hate sweeping so much, David. You’re great at it. Very precise,” Patrick says, and this gets the eye roll he wants. 

Once David’s busy sweeping all around the edges and corners of the shelves, Patrick ducks into the back nook with the speakers and finds what he’s looking for.

David perks upright and looks equal parts bemused and intrigued when the first ethereal notes of Mariah Carey’s  _ Fantasy  _ drift through the space.

Patrick steps towards him, hands stuck in his pockets, proud grin on his face. “If you wanted to listen to Mariah, all you had to do was play it, David.”

David blinks. “You…”

“It took me awhile to figure out what you were humming all day, but…” Patrick shrugs his shoulders, hands still hiding in his pockets. “Then it clicked.”

By now, the percussion has come in and Mariah’s beginning vocals and it’s hard to talk over at this distance, so he gets a little closer, looks up at David from under his lashes.

“It was just in my head,” David defends, one hand fluttering while the other grips the fugly broom. “I mean, it’s  _ always _ in my head but… there were no customers here while it was on, and then you came with lunch, so...”

Patrick’s lips quirk. “Did you think I’d mind?”

“Well, no!” David’s eyes shine curiously, and he tosses his chin. “I just…”

He’s close enough now to catch David’s waist, pull himself in closer.

“Watch out for my dirt pile.” David gestures at the floor.

Patrick kisses him quiet, and he’s smiling against Patrick’s mouth, he can feel it, and under this music it’s kind of like being kissed at a roller rink or at a concert; somewhere soft romantic things can happen under music unfitting.

“Do you like Mariah?” David asks, in a quiet, sort-of hopeful murmur when they part.

“She isn’t in my dailies, no,” Patrick admits, swaying them a little.

“Mm.” David pouts, just a little, smile still lingering. “You probably like… I don’t know… Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell… the latter of which I would wholeheartedly support. You’d be horrified to know exactly how many Christmases I’ve spent cry-driving to  _ River _ .”

“A beautiful seasonal cry-drive song, I must agree.”

David breathes a laugh, still smiling but there’s something hiding under there. Something touched but maybe a little sad. Far away sad, like a memory; a past hurt. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything, just waits, traces a hand over David’s shoulder, over the fuzzy knit of his sweater. 

“Can you start it over?” David asks, finally, a little thin but trying to see himself through it. 

“Sure.”

He does, and the app picks a few appropriate follow-up songs in the same genre and era. By the time the cash is counted and reconciled, the day’s dust brushed away, boxes broken down, and products set in perfect rows, David’s smile has shifted to wholly happy, a little tired from the day’s work, sparking a little wider whenever he looks Patirck’s way, and Patrick thinks that that’s much better than before, especially so if it's the 90s synths that have put it there.

-

He starts the list before he even presents the idea.

It’s best to do things this way, he’s come to learn. Iron out as many details as possible before coming to David with an idea, tell him only what he needs to know, and fastidiously handle the rest. Or more specifically, tell him only what he needs to know and immediately head out on a ‘coffee run’ as a ruse to get the liquor license so David can’t worry too long on the idea and is subsequently locked into it.

He tries to keep the era of his song choices narrow, tries to keep it to things he thinks David might know. There’s lots of different directions this could go, but there’s one singular thing he hopes David will feel. Hopes David will understand, after the evening’s over.

His research begins with all his most favorite love songs, and he’s not entirely surprised to find a few things that should’ve been an indication, back in those days.

_ Kiss Me  _ tops the list, and while it defines a year in his mind—a year of Rachel and first touches and first fears—while it definitely brings back a nostalgia for his teenage years and all those old open mic nights, it’s not quite right in this instance. He’s been kissed... by David. He’s  _ slept  _ with David. It’s no new prospective or perspective, though it will always be perfectly poetic to him. 

_ Sparks Fly _ has all the right sentiments. He  _ does  _ want to run his fingers through David’s hair, and he  _ does  _ see sparks when David smiles and he  _ does  _ want David to lead him up the staircase. Any staircase. But switching  _ ‘green eyes’ _ to  _ ‘brown eyes’ _ just doesn’t hit right and the choices can’t only be made up of his own closeted faves. 

ABBA’s  _ Take A Chance On Me  _ would be fitting about three weeks ago before David fortuitously stumbled into putting a label on things. Plus, Patrick doesn’t want to have to enlist Carmine to play keys. This should just come from him...

_ Kiss From A Rose _ lasts a fair time on the list because of the theatrics required and its general punny-ness until he decides it definitely needs to be… sweeter.

_ 2 Become 1 _ is a top contender—and it’s fun to swap the lyrics to ‘ _ boys and boys go good together’  _ but he nixes it for the same reasons; it’s sufficiently goofy and it will definitely make David blush, but it isn’t what he wants to say. Isn’t the only thing he hopes David will feel. 

It's got to be something a little more sincere.

His intent is only the mildest of embarrassment, not humiliation. Only enough irritation to ruffle David’s feathers, to hear the way his voice gets that breathless edge, to see that sparkle in his eyes, because every time it happens, it gets a little further under David’s walls. Plus he’s cute when he’s like that. 

The embarrassment itself is more a means to an end because… it's in that exact state when David is most perceptive to being told he’s valuable. Valued. Cherished _.  _ Seen.

Striking the right balance is key, so he switches gears a bit, away from his own tastes, and back to David. The entire point of this is to be a surprise, and so he can’t come right out and ask him, but it’s better that way. That way, he can choose a song in David’s lexion, but bring his own meaning. He thinks that while David might blush at The Spice Girls or appreciate the unguarded, considered serenade of Sixpence, his tastes are a bit more classic. 

Mariah leads him to Whitney and Whitney leads him to…

Oh.

He’s forgotten about this one.

-

By the time he’s stowed his guitar in the back room, David’s flitted off to the front corner of the store, showing Heather Warner the hand-stitched tea towels, looking a little looser, a little freer. 

Patrick picks up a plastic cup of champagne and downs half of it a little too quickly. Ronnie knocks his elbow with hers, and her expression isn’t exactly impressed, isn’t exactly happy, but he gets it.

_ Good one, Brewer. _

He just grins, shakes his head at her, and looks back over to David. Heather’s gone now. Moira’s in her place, saying her goodbyes. She reaches out her hands and David takes them readily. She tips her face close, says something, just between the two of them, and then David’s smiling, all shining and sparkling again. He nods, lips pressed together, the apples of his cheeks big and round and perfect, and when she pulls away, waves her fingers in farewell and slips out the front door with the tinkle of the bell hardly audible over the lingering crowd, Patrick watches David turn and brace his hands on the center table where all the skincare is surely unsettled from their straight rows. 

He smiles, to himself, down towards the shoulder of his sweater so that maybe no one will see. Open and big and unencumbered by the tight curl his lips usually took on to keep his smiles at bay. Patrick watches him laugh just a little, just a hitch of his shoulders before he’s covering his face and Patrick looks away now, letting him have the moment.

Someone claps him on the shoulder, pulls him into their circle of conversation, and he doesn’t land back in David’s orbit until the last patron leaves and David’s waving at them through the window, rolling the lock into place with a soft click.

Patrick sets aside the stack of champagne glasses he’s been picking up, looks up at David, who’s expression is uncharacteristically but suitably shy.

The expanse of the store between them hasn’t been this empty, this wide, since this afternoon, but it isn’t a cold distance. It's more like being wrapped up right inside… home. The place that’s shared and special and crafted with care.

David looks askance, bites at his lip even as he smiles and twists his fingers together, rings shining under the soft bulbs. 

“Thank you,” he says, finally, softly, setting his gaze back to Patrick, firm and unwavering though its watery.

Patrick smiles, all the way to his ears.

He leaves the champagne glasses. David steps away from the door.

David’s sweater isn’t soft today, necessarily, but it is warm, and it's all-encompassing when David winds his arms around Patrick’s shoulders.

David holds him, kisses him and it’s…

It’s sparks flying. It’s fireflies dancing and silver moon sparkling. Candlelight and soul forever. It's all of it, every turn of phrase and line and flourish of any good thing anyone’s ever written.

David holds on awhile longer, even after their lips part, and Patrick lets him. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” he says.

Before he’s even finished, David’s blurting, “I  _ loved _ it,” and  _ oh  _ Patrick’s breath catches from that startled, hopeful and increasingly less patient place in his heart… but… perhaps another day.

He presses his palms at the small of David’s back, pulls him a little closer.

“Stay over tonight?” he asks.

“You’d better fucking hope so,” David breathes, and kisses him once more, with passion and promise and all the things his defenses cannot hold.


End file.
